


Through Rose Colored Filters

by Anna__S



Category: Selfie (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:43:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2576981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna__S/pseuds/Anna__S
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things you want to keep to yourself. Or, five times she took a photo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through Rose Colored Filters

**Author's Note:**

> Potential spoilers through all aired episodes, I suppose.

 

 

 _I._  

 

“Henry, how did you know to come over?” she asks, swinging the door open. His hair is a mess and she thinks maybe his shirt is inside out. 

“Did you just run over here?” she asks. 

Eliza swipes her finger under her eyes, removing a thick glob of mascara and eyeliner. Waterproof her ass.

“No,” he says, screwing up his face so he looks like a pug. “I was in the neighborhood and I saw the photo you posted.”  

“Oh,” she says, glancing down at the phone in her hand. The picture of her pouting while covered in spaghetti sauce only has thirty likes so far, but the stains really make her cleavage pop, so she’s pretty confident she’ll get more.  

He looks at her face and then at the shirt in her hands, which is still stained a bright pink. Henry sniffs. 

“Is that…vodka cream sauce?”

“Obvi,” she huffs, flopping backwards onto the couch.   “That was the cherry on top of tonight’s sunday of humiliation.”

“What happened?” he asks. He takes a seat next to her and pulls her favorite teal pillow into his lap.  

“I met Freddie’s mom, and I thought, good sign right?” 

“Yes,” he says, looking genuinely surprised. She’s a little offended, but truthfully, she was kind of surprised too. 

“Well, she’s a total bitch.  First, she told Freddie that I reminded her of one of those Kardashian girls –“

“I’m sorry,” says Henry. 

“No, that part’s a compliment,” she tells him.

“Eliza, that is _not_ a compliment.  She’s famous for having a sex tape.” 

“No, she’s famous for being really hot. But that’s not the point. Because after that his mom told me, to my face, that she doesn’t want her grandkids to share my genes.”

“That is…horribly offensive,” says Henry, squeezing the pillow forcefully between his fingers. 

“And crazy. Does she _know_ how trendy red hair is right now? She wishes she could be lucky enough to have that in her family’s gene pool. So I stormed out of the restaurant, Freddy didn’t try to stop me, and on the way out I crashed into a waiter and he dropped an entire plate of spaghetti on me and totally ruined my new silk tank top.”

Henry is staring at her and she wishes that just once, she could tell the difference between his angry face and his bored face. When she wants to, she can read people; she didn’t get to be an all-star sales rep by not understanding body language.  But when it comes to Henry, it’s like whoever programmed him got all his settings mixed up.

“Have you heard from Freddy?” he asks.

“No,” she sulks. 

“A gentleman would stand up for the woman he loves,” says Henry and she makes a face at gentleman and maybe also loves, because who said anything about that. 

“Family can be hard,” he says in a kinder tone. “I think you should talk to Freddy. But in the meantime, I can help you with that tank top. My family ran an Italian restaurant, remember? I can get spaghetti sauce out of anything.”

 He stands up and offers her a hand. After a moment’s pause, she takes it and he pulls her up, a little too forcefully and she almost falls into him. 

“Do you have any baking soda or corn starch?” he asks.

“Henry, please, you know I don’t cook.”

“You must have something,” he says. “You have a kitchen.”

“Technically.  I’ve never used my stove.  Con Ed actually turned my gas off because they thought nobody was living here.”

 “Con Ed turned your gas off?” he asks, his lips twitching.   

“And sent me a check for sixty-five dollars. Pretty sweet, right?” 

She waits for the lecture, but instead he gives her an actual smile, with teeth showing and everything. Henry turns the sink on and slips the top from her hands.  Eliza stands next to him, eyeing the graceful movement of his hands as he starts to work soap through the shirt. 

Her phone beeps, and without looking down she knows it’s a message from Freddy, but he's just going to have to wait. 

 

 

* * *

 

_II._

“How did you talk me into this again?” Eliza asks, pulling down the dashboard mirror to check her lip liner.  

“By reminding you that an office retreat is a perfect opportunity to deepen your relationship with your co-workers.

She narrows her eyes at him and he sucks in a long breath, like he’s about to jump off a boat.  “And as a favor to me. You know that Sam loves us as a team, and I’m still trying to prove to him that I am more than ready for extra responsibility.” 

“And?” she asks.  She pokes into her purse, trying to find her back-up bronzer.

He exhales. "And I promised you that I would let you pick out my next date outfit."  

She beams at him. 

“Although being an hour late is not getting either of us off on the right foot to accomplish our goals.”

“You know I hate being late,” he adds and he really truly does. She can see the stress working through his forearms, the beads of sweat on his forehead.  It must be exhausting to care about so many things, so much, all the time. 

“Henry, you can talk me into going somewhere, but you cannot make me go there when I don’t look hot, okay?” 

He glances at her. “I am impressed that you’re wearing the office retreat t-shirt.”

“I know, right?  It was actually kind of cute when I made a few improvements,” she says, turning to the side so he can see how she’s shortened it and added midriff cut outs. He lets out a groan.

When they finally pull up to the campsite, it’s after lunch and they’ve only made it just in time for the hike.

With his booming, Broadway voice, Sam welcomes to them to the retreat, swinging the car door open and scooping Eliza onto the ground. Eliza considers trying to get out of the afternoon of group bonding activities, but when she notices that Henry is already seething, she thinks better of it.

And the hike turns out to not be so bad, after all. It’s basically Soul Cycle class with better views. Plus, Joan is totally grateful when halfway up, Eliza offers her an extra cold towelette to wash her face, proving that studded fanny packs are both stylish and useful, no matter what Henry says.

The campsite itself is pretty rustic, but the Company shelled out for the nicest lodges, so there’s hot water, even some decent toiletries.

She puts her feet up on her porch and watches Henry, Terrence and Sam attempt to build a campfire.  It’s almost like watching an episode of Real Housewives.

“I thought you were a boy scout,” she heckles Henry. 

“For a year,” he yells back. “It interfered with my studies so I didn’t make it to the survival skills badges. And if you think you can do better, you’re welcome to try.”

When she walks up, he drops the box of matches and a pile of small sticks on the ground. 

“Be my guest,” he says, gesturing at the ground.

“Give me two secs,” she says confidently as she pulls out her phone. “If YouTube can teach me how to do a perfect Cleopatra eye with my left-hand, I’m sure it can show us how to do something humans have been doing for literally thousands of years.” 

Ten minutes later, the whole group is sitting around the fire pit, snacking on the gourmet sandwiches Sam brought and sharpening marshmallow sticks. 

“See?” she says to Henry. 

“Hmm,” he mumbles back through a mouth full of prosciutto. 

The log they’re seated on is surprisingly comfortable and Eliza stretches her hands towards the fire, watching the sparks play across her skin. She pulls out her phone, swatting at the mosquitos drawn to the light. 

She glances down at the picture Sam took of them from the very top, where the clouds and the forest met in a bright haze. Even without editing, it has that perfect, mystical feel of a really good filter.  But they both look terrible: she’s sweaty and tired, with smudges of make-up on her chin and as usual, his eyes are almost completely closed. The photo reminds her of something Bryn would have taken and yet, for some reason she doesn’t hate it. 

“No selfies,” Henry chides her, but she just rolls her eyes.   Besides technically, it’s not even a selfie. 

For the first time, it occurs to her that there’s something inherently lonely about that word; it means either nobody else was there to take the photo for you or nobody wanted to.

Her finger hovers over the instagram icon, but instead she turns off her phone.  Some things, she thinks, you want to keep to yourself.

 

 

* * *

 

_III._

He finds her in the cafeteria, curled into the corner. Even there, she can feel the bass from the holiday office party thumping into her bones. 

“Freddy broke up with me,” she says, pulling her knees into her chest, tugging her dress down. The sequins are cutting into her ass and she wishes she’d worn anything else, so her beautiful new dress would not be tarnished by this shitty evening.  

Henry’s only nod to the holiday season is a red tie, otherwise he’s wearing the exact same outfit he wears every day. She’s starting to suspect that he buys his clothing in bulk or maybe it's part of his robot suit.  

She takes his cup of mulled cider from him and drinks it in one chug. 

“I heard,” he says, settling down next to her. “I’m sorry.” 

“He was a, what word did Charmonique use…tool? You can do better.” 

Eliza shakes her head.  “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m just another basic bitch and I should accept that.  I kind of like being selfish.” 

“You’re not a basic bitch,” he says, his mouth struggling with the phrase like he’s never heard it before. Maybe he never has.

“I don’t think you want to be selfish. I don’t even really think you are.” He says the last piece so softly, she’s not even totally sure he said it. 

She doesn’t think she’s leaning towards him and yet the distance between them seems to be disappearing anyway. She’s not sure which of them actually closes the gap, but suddenly, he’s kissing her, gently, tentatively.  She moves her hands to his hips, feeling like she always does, all elbows and bruised knees, a gawky teenager all over again. 

He kisses her harder so her back is pressed against the wall, and she can make out her name, said softly into her lips, and something about it makes her snap back to the cold, dirty reality of the cafeteria floor. 

She pulls away, her hands clenching in her lap. His mouth is bright red and shiny-sticky with lipstick.

“What are you doing?” she demands. Making out on the floor during an office party seems like something old Eliza would do, but she's not sure about new Eliza, and she knows this isn't like Henry.  

“I – I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes flickering to her mouth then back to his knees.

“I thought you were different. But no. Here I am, drunk and sad, and the first thing you do is take advantage of that. You’re just like all those other guys you lectured me on."

The strange words are rolling off her tongue in waves, and she can’t seem to stop them.  But he’s flinching like they’re the truth, so maybe they are.

“I have to go,” she says, grabbing her purse. She can feel the burn of fresh tears behind her eyes.  He lets her leave.

Later, he texts her, _I’m sorry._  

 _It’s okay_ , she types.  _Haters gonna hate, players gonna play._

 _You know I dislike it when you use Taylor Swift lyrics instead of engaging in actual conversation,_ he responds within seconds. 

She almost responds with an eye-roll emoji, but his voice echoes in her head, reminding her that _tiny pictorial representations cannot reflect the full range of human emotion, Eliza_. 

But she doesn’t quite have the right words either, so she doesn’t write back.

 

The hangover the next day is bad, like bender level bad. Her mouth hasn’t felt this gross since that time she went on a three-week juice cleanse.

She sends him a photo of her drinking a Bloody Mary the size of a car, her lips pursed against the cocktail shrimp, and things go back to normal, mostly. 

She wonders, occasionally, what she should have said. Maybe that Henry’s teaching is just another form of packaging, another layer of bullshit; that nothing can ever be done to make her anything but the girl she’s always been.  And nobody’s ever loved that girl. 

 

* * *

 

_IV._

 

She frames the cupcake at the perfect downward angle, her fingers flying as she adjusts the saturation and hue.

“There you go!” she tells Joan, handing her the phone back. “Happy birthday, by the way,” she adds, hoping it doesn’t sound like she forgot it was Joan’s birthday, even though she totally did. 

“I love it,” Joan says, smiling at her. “Thanks Eliza.” After a beat, she says, “you can sit with us, you know, if you want to.”

 “Okay,” she says, after a long pause, slipping into the only open chair. “Thanks.”

She considers pulling the garbage can over, but compromises by eating small tiny bites, like she’s some sort of old-timey duchess. She’s trying to nod along to whatever Joan is talking about, when Henry appears. 

“Can I talk to you for a second, outside?” he asks, nodding his head at the hallway.

“Uh okay,” she says in a goofy tone, raising her eyebrows at him.  He doesn’t say anything, but he leads her firmly by the elbow all the way back to his office.

“I was watching you in there. You need to learn to eat something without taking a photo of it.”

“I was doing Joan a favor,” she says. “I was bonding, Henry. And I wasn’t even faking it this time.” 

“Well,” he stutters and she pokes her finger into his chest. Her hands flutter between them.

“What are you so pissy about?” she asks, feeling her own anger rising in her again, just like before, except maybe it never really left. 

“Are you mad that this is working and maybe you’ll have to find another project? Or are you mad that I’m not eating with you?” 

“Neither,” he says dismissively, his arms crossing over his chest.  “I’m just, _you_ were the one who asked, no _begged_ me to do this insane exercise. We can stop anytime you want.”

“You’re right, I did.  And congratulations, it worked. Now you can add me to your collection of triumphs.” She gestures at the plaques and certificates lining his wall. 

“Here is the lozenge I saved from irrelevance, and here is the diaper that I Don Drapered into the west coast’s top selling night-time diaper. And here, my greatest accomplishment of all, the office slut I transformed into a boring prude, just like me.”  

The words taste like a shot, sharp and bitter, and she wants to take them back, but she's not wrong, she knows she's not wrong.  

He steps back, his jaw working, like she’s slapped him. She kind of wishes she had.

“This arrangement is over,” he tells her. “And I have a lot of work to do.”

She struts out of his office, doing her best Beyonce walk, but when she gets into the hallway, she breaks into a run.

 

* * *

 

_V._

 

They don’t speak for two weeks, and she doesn’t know what she’s more surprised by: the number of people who ask her how she’s doing or how much she misses him. 

Then, on Saturday morning, she’s woken up by a loud knock at her door.  Yawning, she peers into the peephole, and she can identify him just by the creases in his forehead. 

"Crap," she whispers to herself, then shouts for him to go away. 

“Eliza, let me in,” he says in his most irritating, stern parent voice. 

“Nope.” 

“I know I owe you an apology, but you have to let me inside.”

“Anything you want to say, you can say through the door,” she says.  She watches as he slumps to the floor.  There’s a large bag of something bright in his arms. 

“Is that, did you bring me candy?” she asks. She tries to take a photo of him, just for blackmail purposes, but it comes out blurry.

“I was going to bring flowers, but I know you hate how they smell. And I remembered you said you liked gummy bears.” 

“Red ones,” she says, her voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” he says. “Red ones.”

He leans back, his head making a light tapping noise.  She slides down the door too, so it’s almost like they’re back to back.

“What was that about an apology?” she asks.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re not a cough drop or whatever it was you said the other day.” 

There's nearly a full minute of silence, but she is determined not to be the first one to give in to this game of chicken. Then, he sighs, the noise distinct even through the door.

“You remember back when you told me you wanted to do this, you said that it was because you realized when you were sick that there was nobody you could call?  Well, you picked the wrong person.  Because you know what? I wouldn’t have had anybody to call either. I mean,” he pauses, “besides my mother.  I actually would’ve been completely fine. I like to maintain a varied assortment of drinks and perishables at all times in case of an emergency-”

She thumps the door, hard. He stops and re-starts.   

“But the point is, that I wouldn't have had anybody else to call either.  So, what do I know?”

“That’s not true,” she says. “You could call me. I think maybe, I would be kind of bummed if you didn’t.” 

“I know. And you could call me. I _want_ you to call me.”    

“Okay,” she says softly. 

“Can I come inside now?” he asks. “These gummies are starting to melt.” 

“I guess,” she says. “After all, YOLO, right.” 

He groans.  “Please don’t say that.” 

She opens the door for him and when he reaches for her hand, she lets him take it. 

  

 

 

 


End file.
